


even though it all went wrong

by andromedaries



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: 75th Hunger Games, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Careers Have Issues (Hunger Games), F/M, Forced Prostitution, Gen, Incest, Quarter Quell, Sibling Incest, So much angst, but kinda forced sibling incest, canon forced prostitution of victors, i did not double check the timeline though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22722196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andromedaries/pseuds/andromedaries
Summary: the golden twin victors from district 1 and the hurricane that was their lives. they'd always known they'd survive together or not at all.
Relationships: Cashmere & Gloss, Cashmere/Gloss
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	even though it all went wrong

**Author's Note:**

> basically i couldn't get it out of my head how horrifying it is that a sibling pair ended up the arena together. and i can't help but headcanon that with all the gross fetishizing of victors in this universe, there's no way a pair of gorgeous twins made it through that mess without people getting Ideas about the two of them. i don’t want to woobify them but i do want to see them from a more humanized perspective, because i feel like the kids influenced by the career district/victor culture were victims of snow’s regime too even if they’re (understandably) portrayed negatively from katniss’s perspective in the original narrative. long story short this narrative tortures the district 1 cinnamon roll twins and the only mercy they ever got was dying at the same time  
> title is from one of the lesser-known final verses of hallelujah

It isn’t until the first time Cashmere goes back to the Academy to guest mentor that she realizes no one in that place knows a god damn thing. They know speed and strength and agility, they know hand-fighting and weapons training and survival skills, they know twenty different ways to break a person’s neck. But not one of them knows what it actually feels like to break a person’s neck. They know how to teach kids how glorious it is to be crowned a victor, the ultimate honor and ambition they can achieve. But they don’t know the first damned thing about victors’ lives after their Games are over. They don’t know what rich and influential Capitolites demand from them in exchange for sponsorships. They don’t know what it’s like to have a kid in the arena whose life depends on you going through with it. They don’t know what it’s like to think maybe you should just let that kid die in there so they don’t have to come out of the arena and realize what’s waiting for them here on the other side is even worse. They don’t know what it’s like to have the president hold your baby brother’s life over your head if you even think about standing up for yourself. 

It’s not their fault, she thinks. No one who hasn’t been in the arena can understand. She believed in glory once too. 

Her baby brother tells her he’s going to volunteer next year and she feels her heart crack like a glacier. She should have never told him what the president does to victors. But who else could she have turned to? He’s the only person on the planet she trusts. When she can speak again she absolutely forbids it. You don’t want to go through what I've gone through. And that’s if you _win._ What if you don’t? I can't lose you. We’re all each other has. He tells her if he wins they’ll both be victors and Snow won’t have leverage on either of them. And if he doesn’t, at least Snow won’t be able to use him against her anymore. She begs him not to. He says she can’t stop him. She tells him about all the sponsors she’ll have to fuck to keep him fed. He says she’ll end up doing that for her tribute whether it’s him or not, but if it’s him, it’ll be the last time she has to. 

She sobs when he gets his victor’s crown. They tell him he’ll have his own house as soon as they build a thirteenth one in the village and he tells them not to bother. He and Cash had both moved into the last empty house from the community home last year, since their scholarship to the Academy only covered training, not room in the dorm. Cash’s mansion was already so much more space than they’d gotten used to growing up; they hardly needed two of them. She looks up at their crowns sitting side by side on the mantel over the fireplace while they’re curled up on the couch watching tv and thinks maybe things will finally be alright.

They go back to the Capitol for the next Games after Gloss’s and they’re both mentoring now, and both of their tributes are promising. Both volunteers, both eighteen. The girl was the top of her class at the Academy. The boy had been in private training with an independent mentor for ten years. On the third day of the games they’re neck and neck for the lead on the kill list, both favored as likely winners in the betting pools, when Cashmere is summoned for a “private sponsor meeting” with a man she has seen quite a lot of over the past two years. She tells him she will not be needing his sponsorship this year and cordially invites him to take his business elsewhere. He tells her that’s not an answer she wants to give to someone who is a stakeholder in the Games and an old colleague of the president. She tells him neither he nor Snow has any currency with her anymore and makes a suggestion about where he could shove his sponsorship. 

She comes back to the mentors’ viewing station from the booths with the phones practically floating; she got her life back, stood up and _dragged_ it back, they both did, and she’s flying high on it. Gloss squeezes her hand and tells her he’s proud of her, and she hugs him for a long moment.

Until she’s yanked back to her viewing screen by the shatter of her tribute’s scream.

Cashmere’s veins fill with ice and mounting horror as her tribute’s routine patrol of their campsite is ambushed by a pack of wolf-mutts that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. They disappear just as quickly when her cannon goes off. The growing pool of blood in the grass around her body mirrors the growing pool of dread filling up Cashmere’s lungs, the leaden realization that clangs shut on her like a prison door. Somewhere that seems miles away she hears Gloss on the phone with the girl’s hysterical mother, who keeps asking over and over why they would just kill her out of nowhere without even giving her a chance to fight. She sinks her head down to the table slowly and buries her face in her arms and wonders if it was really only fifteen minutes ago that she was foolish enough to believe she could ever wrest a single shred of her power back from President Snow once he had decided it was his. 

The next day Gloss gets a call requesting a sponsor meeting and he can hear in the woman’s voice exactly what kind of meeting she has in mind. His stomach turns over and he looks at Cashmere and then looks at his tribute and asks her what time. Cashmere has never felt older. She has her head in her hands when he hangs up. I was supposed to protect you, she says hollowly. He leans his head on her shoulder and reminds her she’s only three minutes older than him. He tells her she’s done everything she can and that they’ll just have to help each other through it. Then he asks her to keep an eye on his tribute for him while he’s... out. He turns to leave and she tries to focus very hard on District 1’s remaining tribute to keep her mind away from how near she is to throwing up.

As she lies awake that night, she goes back and forth in her mind about whether their tributes would even want their mentors to go to such undignified lengths just to buy them another day. 

Then a week later Gloss’s tribute is crowned a victor. He's the only one of those kids who isn’t dead, and the girl who had just as good a shot as he had is dead because of her, and she knows that she won’t be able to live with herself if she gambles with her kids’ lives like that. 

Another year comes and goes and it never really becomes okay but they get used to it. They help each other through it. It helps to have someone who understands, and it helps even more when it’s the most important person in your world. The other victors help a lot too. There’s always someone there with a stiff drink and a bitter laugh and a comforting hand to take the place of all the abusing ones. 

It's the third year since Gloss’s games the first time someone orders a night with the two of them together. They see the blood rush out of each other’s faces like looking in a mirror. 

She feels like she should have seen this coming. Of course Snow would never run out of fresh hell for them, but her brain had never even conceived of this. 

Which feels foolishly naive in retrospect. She knew there was a market out there for twin stuff. She knew they were closer than most siblings. She wasn’t blind to the way other brothers and sisters she knew always seemed to be sniping at each other about borrowing things without permission and taking too long in the shower, while she and Gloss had always been imperturbable best friends. Back in the community home, everyone was just grateful to have one less bickering-sibling-induced migraine. At the Academy, some of their classmates eyed them sideways and whispered things that weren’t too hard to catch the gist of, but they’d always just rolled their eyes at them. They were twins. They were close. There was never anything sexual about it. People just like to get ideas. 

But now their bodies didn’t belong to them and people who got ideas expected to get a lot more than just ideas. 

She looks at the screen at her tributes. She looks back at Gloss. He looks at her like he’s lost and she thinks he looks much more than just three minutes younger than her. 

“Absolutely not,” she tells the woman. She slams the phone down and squeezes her eyes shut and tries to tell herself that her tributes wouldn’t want this for them. 

Her tribute is mauled by mutts again within minutes. They do not kill her this time. They rip her stomach to shreds and leave her alone in the woods to die slowly with half her guts the wrong side out. Cashmere claws her nails into her face and pulls a trash can over to their viewing station so she can vomit without having to leave the poor girl alone. Gloss answers the phone and they stay on the line for hours with her sobbing father until he passes out from exhaustion. It takes three whole days for the girl to die. 

A few hours after her cannon finally takes mercy on them, the phone rings again. The same woman is still interested in sponsoring District 1’s remaining tribute and wants to know if they have reconsidered her proposition. Cashmere vomits again. Gloss holds her hair back with one hand and writes down the address and the appointment time with the other. 9pm tonight. 

Cashmere pulls Enobaria aside and asks her and Brutus to keep an eye on their tribute, since they’re still in alliance at the moment. Gloss tells their escort she can have the day off tomorrow if she’ll stay on tonight to man the sponsor phone line. Then they both disappear back to their apartment in the tribute center to get good and drunk. 

She opens a bottle of the scotch he likes and wrinkles her nose. She doesn’t usually drink liquor, but she knows wine won’t cut it for this. The sound of it splashing into the glasses is more comforting than it ought to be, she thinks, but she can hardly afford to think about that now. She can’t even muster the mirthless smile she was aiming for when she raises her glass to toast. They knock their drinks back silently and pour another. And another. 

He asks her if she thinks the woman will want them to focus their attentions more on her or more on each other. Her stomach clenches painfully and she says she doesn’t know. 

They finish their third drinks and she stares down at the glass in her hands when she asks if he’d want to pick which underthings she wears for it. His eyes do not meet hers and his voice sounds far away and small when he says sure. 

He swallows against panic rising in his throat as he starts sifting through her drawer, eventually settling on a subtly lacy matching set that’s the same seaglass color as their eyes. He tries not to think of which nasty rich old pervert had bought them for her. 

She comes in and wraps her arms around him from behind and rests her head on his shoulder. “Good choice,” she tells him. As if this one insignificant little last choice left to them in any of this counts for shit. “You go pick something nice for yourself now while I get ready.” 

When he’s dressed he comes into the bathroom where she’s brushing out her hair and asks her with a wordless look if what he’s got on looks okay. She’s slammed back into memories in the room they shared at the community home, back when they were preteens and he hadn’t caught on to a fashion sense of his own yet, and she was always stopping him as he was running out of the house in horribly clashing outfits and telling him to go change. He knew more about clothes than she did these days, but he still never left the house without running his outfit by her first. She swallows against the lump rising in her throat and nods. 

They call for a cab and give the address. 

The elevator ride up to her room looks like it's in the middle of an expensive hotel, but it feels more like the tube into the arena. She hangs onto his hand so tight she’s sure it’s hurting him, and he doesn’t complain. 

They meet the woman. Stiffly introduce themselves. Get the charade out of the way. Ask her what she wants. 

As it turns out, she does not want them to focus on her. She does not want to participate at all. 

She just wants to watch. 

Cashmere thinks she should have had another drink. Maybe something more than just a drink. She should have a chat with Finnick tomorrow; she’s pretty sure there’s something else he takes when he’s with sponsors. She wonders if it makes it easier. 

Gloss tells the woman they haven't done this before. The look she answers with says that’s half the point. 

She takes his hands and feels frozen. He kisses her very tentatively and it just feels strange. She makes herself move her hands to all the places they’re supposed to go, and thinks about all the money this woman is paying for this, and thinks they won’t get away with being so mechanical. She tries to close her eyes and imagine it’s someone else, but finds there isn’t really anyone else she wants to imagine either. Other than sponsors, there’s been a few other victors she’s hooked up with just to feign some sense of control over their sex lives, and a few boyfriends back when she was in school, but she hadn’t loved any of them. 

She wonders what he’s thinking. 

He holds her hand very tightly and it feels like an anchor, the one normal thing they would be doing anyway. 

She lets him push her onto her back and stills for a moment with their foreheads resting against each other, eyes squeezed shut. It’s alright Cash, he says into her ear. You're alright. She digs her fingers harder into the back of his neck and nods. We’re alright, she breathes back. He kisses her forehead and gives her a wavering smile and says let’s give em a good show. 

They don’t look at each other the whole cab ride home. They don’t look at each other the whole next day. Gloss takes the bottle of scotch from last night with him when he goes back to the viewing center to resume watch over his tribute. Cashmere only leaves her bed to get a bottle of pinot grigio from the fridge, which happens twice, and to get in the shower, which happens four times. Gloss sleeps at the viewing center that night and Cashmere thinks that of all the horrors Snow has inflicted on her the worst by far is coming between her and her brother. 

She turns the Games coverage back on the tv in their tribute center apartment the next morning and tries to feel normal. In the early afternoon the teamed-up girls from 10 and 7 climb trees on either side of the inner-district alliance’s camp with backpacks full of rocks and pelt them down at their heads. The inner-district alliance, down to three at this point, splits up to go after them, but they’ve all taken a few hits and are clearly disoriented. Enobaria and Finnick’s tributes go after the girl from 7 because she’s got a knife in addition to her rocks, and Gloss’s boy goes after 10. Cashmere holds her breath watching as he lunges for her, but he’s dizzied from the initial attack and his depth perception is off and she manages to get his feet out from under him. She looks as surprised as he does, but she doesn’t waste a second before slamming her rock into his skull. 

His cannon reverberates in Cashmere’s ribcage for what feels like hours. She stares dumbly at the screen for a while without really seeing it. Then her feet carry her to the shower again. 

She doesn’t know how long she’s been sitting on the shower floor letting the boiling water crash over her when she hears a knock on the door. “Cash? It’s me,” Gloss says, coming in to sit on the edge of the tub outside the shower curtain. She reaches a hand out from behind the curtain and he holds it. They sit like that for a long time. 

“I think,” he starts, then falters. 

“What is it, Glossy?” she asks. She can’t remember the last time she called him that old childhood nickname, but it seemed comforting. 

“I think... maybe all this would be easier... if we could... at least pretend it was on our terms.” The words sound like they’re choking him. 

She lets the words sink in. If it would make it easier for him, how could she deny him that? Maybe it was worth a shot. Worst case scenario it doesn’t help and they’re no worse off than they already are. 

“Alright,” she says. “Now?” 

“If you want. But... not all of it? I don't think we should. But I think... some... might help.” 

She's never seen him so lost for words, and she feels like she’s floundering just as much. 

“Yeah,” she answers. “Could you hit the dimmer switch?” 

He lets go of her hand and dims the lights to near-darkness. She hears clothes hitting the floor and swallows hard. Her hand reaches out again and he takes it, and she pulls him behind the curtain with her. It feels like time has slowed down and the whole earth is barely turning. He pushes her soaking hair back from her face and lets his hand still on her neck, and kisses her achingly slowly, impossibly gently. She clings to his back like he’s the only port in the eternal hurricane of her life, because he is. 

They don’t do anything else this time, just hold each other and kiss each other. It isn't passionate. It isn't hot. It’s only loving, as best they can with what they’ve got. 

They fall asleep on the couch together in front of the tv like they have a thousand times back at home. Soon enough that year’s Games are over. 

By next year, the idea has spread around that they can be ordered for a night together. This does not surprise them. They’re getting more used to it. Cashmere can’t decide if she feels revolted or relieved that it’s actually becoming preferable to have someone there with her that she loves if she has to be forced together with strangers. 

Then they hear the rule change of the third Quarter Quell. 

District 1 has fourteen living victors to reap from but Cashmere feels a horrible certainty expanding in her chest that it will be one of them. She opens her mouth to speak and Gloss beats her to it. “If it’s you I'm going to volunteer.” 

She thinks back to the day all those years ago the first time her baby brother told her he was going to volunteer and how she begged him not to. It feels like a different lifetime. 

“I will too, if it’s you.”

She squeezes his hand. Together, or not at all. 

She lays in his bed that night and tells him that maybe they should both volunteer. It’s not like the rest of their lives has very much left for them anyway. He tightens his arm around her waist and says she’s not wrong, but he’d rather not die in the arena if they don’t have to. 

The reaping comes and Cashmere’s name is called out with a resounding finality to it and she thinks this was always how it was going to end, wasn't it. Back in the arena, because she never really left. No one who goes in ever really leaves. She watches her baby brother volunteer for her again and she forces a smile onto her face for the crowd. 

Their belongings are in the rooms on the tribute side of the apartment instead of the mentor side and it feels like they’re in a mirror dimension. 

They throw themselves into training to try to forget that, since they both can’t come out of the arena alive, that means neither of them will. She knows better than to hope for a miracle like those kids from 12 got last year. She knows Seneca Crane is dead. She knows the gamemakers will not be making that mistake again. 

It feels good to have their bodies moving and running and fighting again, like they trained to their whole lives. In some perverse kind of way it almost feels like the way they were meant to go. Maybe Brutus or Enobaria can make it out. Or even Finnick. She’s never really understood Finnick, but she knows he has as raw a deal as her and Gloss have with solicitous sponsors, and he’d often been a comfort to the two of them. 

The night before they go back into the arena they know they have to come up with a plan. “You know Snow’s just gunning for the kids from 12 because of their stunt from last year. Maybe he won’t care about us,” Gloss says, looking less hopeful than he sounds. 

Cashmere shakes her head. “It’s still the arena, Glossy. Only one person’s coming out. They won’t make last year’s mistake again.”

“I know. I guess I just haven’t wrapped my head around it yet,” he says quietly. “So... how are we gonna do it? I want it to be at the same time. I don't want to be in there without you.” 

“At the same time, definitely. Together.” She smiles bitterly. “So we can at least pretend it’s on our terms.”

They exchange a few ideas and come up with a few options, but they know they can’t solidify a plan without seeing the arena. They know it can’t look intentional. District 1 would never hear the end of it, and they wouldn’t shame their other victors like that. Their neighbors in the village were the closest thing they had to family. 

They both know the moment when they see it. They’re on the beach just inside the tree line and Brutus is trying to convince Enobaria they can charge the other alliance at the Cornucopia. Enobaria is telling him they’re too outnumbered. Brutus argues that Nuts and Volts are deadweight in a fight and Loverboy is a liability. Cashmere and Gloss meet each other’s eyes while the other two are preoccupied with their argument. Eno is barking that Brutus is underestimating the boy from 12, and even if he wasn’t, three strong fighters and three meat-shields could still deal them too much damage. 

“I think we should do it,” Gloss interrupts, “while we’ve still got four of us.”

“Me too. It’s not going to get any easier,” Cashmere agrees. 

Enobaria’s lip curls back from her sharpened teeth. “Fine,” she growls. “You two can take the lead if you’re so eager.” 

Cashmere nods. She hopes Enobaria wins. 

They finish gearing up their weapons and Gloss takes her hand. “You ready?” he whispers. She nods. “I'll take Finnick. You aim for Johanna.” She's grateful for this. At least Johanna’s kind of a bitch. She really doesn’t think she’d have it in her to kill Finnick. She doesn’t think Gloss will either, but at least she won’t have to find out. She pulls him into a crushing hug and rests their foreheads together for a long moment, then they pull away to get into formation with their allies. Cash and Brutus will charge from the spoke behind the Cornucopia and blindside the other alliance while Gloss and Eno cover them from the spoke beside it. 

They look out toward the Cornucopia at their death waiting to greet them with axes and tridents and arrows. Gloss squeezes Cashmere’s hand one more time before they split up. “See you on the other side.” 

Cashmere barely has time to see the 12 girl’s arrow sink into her brother’s chest and his body hit the water and her last tether to this earth snap like it’s been stretched too thin for years before Johanna’s axe comes hurtling toward her. It doesn’t even cross her mind to dive out of its way.


End file.
